


Death and Taxes

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M, Gen, Political Unrest, Politics, Revolt, Taxes, council meetings, uprisings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 17:25:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16433690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: In Roger's Tortall, the only certainties are death and taxes.





	Death and Taxes

Death and Taxes

“I see the only constants in Tortall are death and tax increases, sire.” Lord Ignatius of Stone Mountain scowled down at the proposed tax rates on the parchment beneath his fish hook nose. “This is an unacceptable tax burden to place on your nobility.” 

“Especially with the famine making times rough and money tight,” added Lord Maxwell of Runnerspring, ever the pompous sycophant to the Lord of Stone Mountain, Roger thought acerbically as another council meeting began to feel more like a pitched battle with him on one side and his nobles arrayed against him on the other. 

“It’s because of the rough times and the tight money that I must raise taxes to fund granaries so the peasants won’t starve, my lords.” Roger held onto the frayed thread of his temper, glowering across the gleaming mahogany table at first Lord Maxwell and then Lord Ignatius. 

“It’s traditionally a noble’s duty to keep his own peasants from starving.” Duke Brendan haMinch, head of the mighty Minchi clan of the north, spoke in a voice as coldly immobile as the ice-capped mountains that carved through his lands. He would fulfill his obligation to his peasants during this famine, but the same couldn’t be said for the Lords of Runnerspring and Stone Mountain, who cared only for their statuses at court without concern for the peasants who toiled in the field to support their luxurious living. They were all about pleasure and ambition, not at all about duty and responsibility to those below them. “These tax increases will make it more difficult for the nobility to fulfill those obligations, Your Majesty.” 

“The nobility have obligations to the peasantry that extend beyond their own lands, Your Grace.” Roger tried to sound smooth rather than strained by this objection. “It is the collective responsibility of the nobility to feed the peasants during times of famine.” 

“Who cares if a couple hundred or a couple thousand peasants starve in their mud huts?” Lord Ignatius snorted, rippling the parchment beneath his nose. “Are we truly to tighten our belts so peasants don’t drop dead in the fields?” 

“See how tight your belt becomes when peasants are dropping like flies in the fields, and those that aren’t starving are revolting because they’ve got no bread.” Roger pounded his clenched fist against the mahogany table. The wood struck his flesh with more force than he had anticipated, but he concealed a wince behind his snarl as a wounded dog would. As a king, Roger didn’t know whether he feared the mass starvation or the large-scale rebellion of peasants more, but he was determined to avoid both even if it brought his balking nobility to the brink of revolt. 

“The Crown can crush any pitiful pitchfork peasant uprising before it gains any significant momentum.” Lord Ignatius was all derision—whether for his king or for the peasants, Roger preferred not to speculate. 

“The Crown can crush any uprising by the peasantry or the nobility.” Roger injected all the menace he could muster into his voice. 

“Of course the Crown can destroy all traitors. The Crown’s authority to deal with traitors is unquestioned.” Despite his hauteur, Lord Ignatius and the rest of the council were sufficiently cowed by Roger’s threat to vote in support of the tax raise for the nobility. 

Weary from another fight in his endless war with the nobility, Roger retreated to Jessamine’s solar after the council meeting concluded on a tense note with the passing of his motion to increase taxes for the nobility. 

“The council has approved the taxes we need on the nobility,” Roger confided to his wife as soon as she had dismissed her servants and ladies-in-waiting. “That would be good news except I worry that in averting peasant rebellion, I’m bringing myself to the precipice of civil war with my nobles, and the slightest slip of my food could send me—send the realm—sailing over that cliff edge.” 

“You worry too much.” Jessamine kissed his throbbing temples. “You’re the king, my dear. Nobody would dare take arms against you.” 

“I wish all my generals were as faithful and fearsome as you, my love.” Roger cupped her cheek and thought of how, like most Barzunni noblewomen, she was fearless in her riding and archery. “Then my enemies would tremble in their boots before they dared to take arms against me.” 

“You’re the king,” repeated Jessamine softly, leaning into his touch. “You’ve no enemies we can’t destroy on or off the battlefield.”


End file.
